by Catie Rhodes
Justice
Catie Rhodes
Contents
Series List
Justice
About the Author
Series List
The Peckerwood Coat of Arms: A Short Story
Forever Road (Book #1)
Justice: A Short Story
Black Opal (Book #2)
Rocks & Gravel (Book #3)
Rest Stop (Book #4)
Forbidden Highway (Book #5)
Rear View: Prequel (Book #6)
Crossroads (Book #7)
Dead End (Book #8)
Justice
The Harley’s roar drowned out all other sounds, and the rain drove into my face, stinging like needles. I ducked behind Wade Hill’s massive back. That position treated me to yellow lines racing underneath my cowboy boots. The rough, wet pavement was so close I felt the heat rising off it. My imagination supplied images of what the blazing asphalt could do to my skin. I forced my eyes back up just in time to see the eighteen wheeler bearing down on us.
Not even slowing, it changed lanes and sped past. A gust of backdraft—wind and water—slammed into us, shoving us toward the gravelly shoulder where doom awaited. I sucked in my breath and tightened my knees around Wade’s hips. He showed no reaction other than tightening his fists on the ridiculously high handlebars.
When the struggle ended, he half turned and yelled over his shoulder, “You all right back there?”
“Yes,” I screamed, getting a mouthful of rain. The yes was a lie. I didn’t like driving my old Chevy Nova in the rain. I loathed riding on this death machine in the midst of a late summer downpour.
“Good. Almost there.”
That gave me no comfort. The mystery surrounding this journey had me on edge. I wanted to help Wade. In our short relationship, he’d been on hand every time I needed him. But this involved the Six Gun Revolutionaries, Wade’s friends and sometime employers. I didn’t see how much good could come of involving myself in their business. Sounded like a good way to get mashed flat.
Without warning, Wade whipped off the four lane highway and down a blacktop side road. My equilibrium went the other way, and rain slapped my face from the side, running into my ear. We traveled down that road until it dead ended at a cattle guard and electronic gate. Wade punched in some numbers, and the gate slowly opened.
We rode down a concrete road into a grove of pines and stopped at another gate and cattle guard. This one had no keypad. Wade punched a button.
“Mojo Rider?” The voice was twangy cracker country. “You got her?”
“You see her on the security cam, don’t you?” Wade’s deep voice rumbled against my chest where our bodies touched. Remembering my boyfriend, a cop who’d have a conniption fit if he knew where I was, I scooted back. Dean would skin me alive if he ever found out I came out here. Then, he’d want to know everything I saw and heard. Only one solution existed: I could never tell him. Stupid and dishonest. That’s me.
The gate opened. We rolled down a concrete driveway ending in a huge parking lot in front of a long, low cinderblock building. The building didn’t match the fancy concrete roadways, but the couple dozen motorcycles sitting explained them just fine. Bikers don’t like to get their rides muddy. Whatever I’d expected on my first visit to the Six Gun Revolutionaries Motorcycle Club headquarters, this wasn’t it. I didn’t even think they brought women here. My apprehension and my imagination teamed up to present horrific images of what happened to stupid girls. I barely heard Wade cut the engine.
He got off the motorcycle and helped me dismount. The big bike was made for a six-foot-six man, not a five-foot-nothing girl. We had trouble because I was too preoccupied to help. My lips itched to ask Wade what I’d agreed to, why he said he needed my help as a friend, but the question stuck in my throat.
The battered black door of the clubhouse opened, and a grizzled, gray haired man stepped out and strode toward us, his braid slapping one tattooed arm. His gray eyes chilled me until I stood shivering in the warm summer rain. Shoving past me, he clapped Wade on the shoulder.
“Mr. Mojo Rider.” The man’s overly loud, rough voice reminded me of power tools with sharp edges. The two men did that thing where they sort of shake hands and sort of hug. Finally, he turned those horrible eyes back on me. “This is Peri Jean Mace?”
Wade nodded, put one hand on my back and said, “Peri Jean, this is King Tolliver, President of the Six Guns and the person who invited you here today.”
“Mr. Tolliver.” I winced at high, nervous pitch of my voice and held out my hand, which trembled. Tolliver snorted, his Adam’s apple working in his chickeny red neck. He took my hand, gave it a limp pump, and dropped it. Tolliver met Wade’s eyes, and something passed between the two men.
“You can trust her.” Wade nodded. “I’ll vouch for her.”
Wind whispered in the high tops of the pine trees, shaking loose rain which pattered on the ground around us. It hit me this was the first sound I’d heard since Wade cut the Harley’s loud engine. If I pissed these people off, nobody could hear me scream. My skin tightened, and I glanced at Wade, looking for a joke or a smile. He gave me neither.
“Get her inside.” Tolliver turned and walked away.
Apprehension tightening my throat, I allowed Wade to lead me into the dark maw of the Six Gun Revolutionary club house. The rumble of conversation stopped as two dozen eyes settled on us. The figures half-hidden in shadows and clouds of cigarette smoke were not the smiling lawyers and accountants who rolled into Gaslight City on their shiny Hogs with their new leather and their high limit credit cards. These guys were the real deal.
I immediately reached for my pack of reds and lit up just for the familiarity of ritual. Wade followed suit beside me. His dark eyes lit on mine, darted away, and came back.
He was just as apprehensive about this job as I was. His uncertainty nipped away at my frayed nerves. Why the hell was I here again? Oh, yeah. I agreed to come because Wade once saved my grandmother’s and my life. Helping him if he said he needed it was my duty as a friend. But being here brought back every rumor I ever heard about these guys. Outlaws, highwaymen, murderers, and, sometimes, philanthropists. One question stayed What could they want with me?
King strutted to the room’s center, holding four long-necked beer bottles. I don’t drink, but I figured this wasn’t the time to announce that. Wade led me to the table, and I accepted the beer King Tolliver handed me. He motioned for us to sit like a nobleman bestowing favor, and we obeyed in kind. A man about Wade’s age joined us, clapping Wade on the back as he sat. Wade smiled a real smile.
“Peri Jean, this is Corman Tolliver, my best friend and King’s oldest son. Me and Corman met in the sand.”
The sand? I was too rattled to keep my expression neutral, and the two men guffawed.
“He means Iraq.” Corman’s straight white teeth and sun-damaged heavily freckled skin gave him a rugged sexiness. His open shirt and perfectly combed goatee suggested he played it to the hilt. “Marines. Both of us.”
I glanced at Wade, widening my eyes in question. We worked together, him helping me with my odd jobs business, at least one day a week. His being a veteran who served in Iraq never came up. King cleared his throat.
“Reason you’re here today is my younger son, Isaac, his wife, and my grandson are missing. We’d like to use your gift to find them.” King pushed his cell phone across the table. A picture of a shaggy haired man, a tattooed woman, and a grinning baby dominated the home screen.
“I’d love to help you.” I paused for sincerity and to remind myself not to smile in relief. “But I can only see dead people.”
“They been gone ten days.” King didn’t hesitate. “Isaac would-a called me by now.”
What he didn’t
say hung in the silence. King thought his family dead, and he wanted answers. My grandmother, the only family I had, was dying of terminal cancer. I sympathized, but I still wanted to get away from this situation.
“Thing is, this doesn’t work like those TV psychics. I can’t just call a ghost to me, especially not someone I don’t know.” I glanced at Wade for help. He pressed his lips together and stubbed out his cigarette. Oh boy.
“Peri Jean, when I helped you last November, I was working for the Six Guns. Remember me telling you about that?” Wade’s dark eyes held none of their usual mirth. He wore the same expression as all the other men in this room.
I swallowed hard and nodded. This wasn’t going away. Dread settled over me, and I slumped in my chair.
“It’s like this, Peri Jean.” Corman lit up a cigarette and gave me a grin that probably removed girls’ pants all by itself. Too effing bad I wasn’t buying. “Since Wade was working for us, we technically helped you out that night. And now we want you to help us. Understand?”
There was no acceptable answer but yes, so I said it. On cue, a guy with more body hair than a Pomeranian set a box of toys and clothes in front of me. The clunk it made on the table sounded like a gavel falling in a courtroom. I was stuck, and it scared the stuffing out of me. Feeling eyes on me, I glanced up to see King watching me. The light in his scary eyes danced. He loved this.
“One of them TV shows about psychic mediums said y’all can sometimes see the other side when you got the victims’ belongings.” King pulled a ruined pair of men’s jeans from the box and tossed them into my lap.
I stared down at the ripped and stained material, fingering one of the holes.
“So where is he?” A hoarse voice called from the darkness.
“I’ve never done this before,” I said. “Just give me a few seconds.”
I expected to hear more catcalls, but the silence I got was worse. It slipped over my skin like a too heavy coat, growing heavier with each second. I closed my eyes, trying to shake off the pressure, begging my mind to concentrate. And something spooky happened.
The room around me drifted away. The vision took me to a tree-lined roadside and into someone else's body. The jolt of unfamiliar thoughts, emotions, and someone else's aches and pains fueled my fear. My new and improved ability scared me every time it manifested itself in a different way. But I had to do this. No way around it. I concentrated on the sounds and smells, begging my mind to adjust so I could finish the task.
I willed my body to relax, counting down my inhales and exhales, and the vision took over my mind. Wind. Water running. Birds chirping. And the smell of something sharp and chemical. The man whose jeans I held and whose head I inhabited knelt on a bridge, looking into some clear water running over white rocks. I slipped into Isaac’s mind, moaning as his emotions merged with mine.
Fear and worry. Mostly worry. A baby cried in the background. It was the source of the worry. Isaac feared what would happen to the baby, but he accepted his death. There was no getting out of that. Legs surrounded him, hands held him against the concrete guard rail. Through the legs, I saw part of a long, green sign, the kind marking a creek or river. "eeping Woma" Something bright exploded behind my eyes, and I jerked back into my body.
The room’s silence was different now, worse. It was shocked.
“Wow. She looked like she was havin’ some kinda fit.” This from yet another voice.
King’s head snapped up, and he pointed a finger into the crowed. “Shut up. Now.” He turned his dead eyes on me, turning his rough voice into a soft croon. “What did you see, baby?”
I cringed at the pet name coming from this man and told him exactly what I saw, describing the words on the sign with as much care as possible.
“eeping Woma?” King squinted at me, unhappy with the little bit of nothing clue to his son’s whereabouts.
“It was part of a word. I could see other letters, but the angle was wrong.” I took out another cigarette, but my hands shook too bad to light it. King lit it for me, staring into my eyes. His eyes held almost as much emotion as a lizard's.
“Might know where that's at.” The owner of the hoarse voice approached the table. The name on his vest was Trench Coat. I didn’t want to think about how he got it.
“Oh yeah?” King acknolwedged Trench Coat with a disinterested nod.
"I grew up in Bandera. Used to be a place right outside the county line called Weeping Woman Creek. Nothing out there back then. We'd go to drink and party."
“This makes sense.” Corman leaned across the table. “They were headed west, gonna take Justice to see Ashley’s mom. They spent the last night we heard from them in Austin.” He grabbed a faded, stained map off the table and traced a route with one freckled finger. “Her mom lives Edwards County. Right here.” He tapped the map. “See? They'd have gone that way."
“That's Holy Roller Country.” Trench Coat probably hadn’t seen his dick in years if his huge belly was any indication. “Think those sumbitches got 'em?”
That inspired a low rumble throughout the room.
“So where is Weeping Woman Creek?” Corman had more finesse than his father, but his tone of voice indicated his patience was headed the way of the dinosaur.
“Right here.” Trench Coat pointed one dirty finger at the map. Then, he grabbed a chair and dragged it to the table but stopped when he caught King’s and Corman’s expressionless faces. He slouched and disappeared into the depths of the room.
“My boy’s dead?” King narrowed his eyes and pinned me with his arctic stare.
I closed my eyes. “Probably. They either hit him or shot him in the head. If you ain’t heard from him in ten days…”
“We’ll go there,” Corman said. “Find Justice. Maybe Ashley. See what those fucking Holy Rollers had to do with this.”
I sagged with relief, grateful to see this little job done and I no worse for the wear. I turned to Wade, expecting to see his grin, to see him standing, ready to take me out of here. Instead, he hunched over the table, holding his beer in both hands. He emptied the bottle and stood.
“She needs more clothes if we’re riding that far. Dry ones.”
I could have cried, but I didn’t want to cry in front of these cutthroats. Defeated, I sat at the table tracing the names carved into it while the men looked for clothes.
After more manhandling than necessary, I found myself wearing a pair of assless leather pants over my jeans, a dry t-shirt scented with cheap men’s cologne, and a beat up denim button down shirt. Wade found a woman’s leather jacket and told me I’d want it after dark, especially if it rained on us.
“I don’t understand why I have to go.” I heard the whine in my voice but didn’t give a shit. I didn’t want to ride motorcycles all the way to the Hill Country in the gray rain. Especially not with the Six Gun Revolutionaries. I wanted to be at my grandmother’s house, exchanging pornographic text messages with my boring cop boyfriend. Guilt for running off with Wade ate at me. If something happened to me, what would my grandmother do without me?
“Because you ain’t finished finding Isaac and his family yet. And you ain’t figured out who’s responsible.” Wade stuffed the leather jacket into his fiberglass saddlebag. He looked up from his task and winced at the expression on my face. He softened his expression and put his hand on my arm. “I’m sorry about this. But there’s just nothing I can do that won’t make things worse. And I couldn’t blow them off. Please try to understand.”
“How’d you get involved with them?” I leaned close to him and pitched my voice low. He sighed and crossed his arms over his chest.
“Met Corman in Iraq. Became friends. We saved each other's asses a few times. Got home, my girl had married another guy, and there wasn’t much to ground me to civilian life. I got in trouble.” He watched me. “Corman and King got me out of it. Understand?”
“Yeah.” I knew about that kind of trouble. My grandmother got me out of my own patch of it. I remembered tho
se horrible first days back from my own hell and cringed.
Wade leaned in close. I noticed for the first time his black beard had threads of gray running through it.
“I’ll make you a promise,” he said in a near whisper, his breath tickling my face. “You will get out of this alive. Or we’ll both be dead because they’ll have to kill me first. You’re the first real friend outside these dudes I’ve had in a long time, and I will take care of you.”
There was nothing else to say. Even if I wanted to tell Wade to stick his friendship where the sun didn't shine, the Six Guns wouldn't just let me go. Wade threw his leg over his big two wheeler. Gripping his shoulder for balance, I climbed on behind him. Around us, more Six Gun Revolutionaries mounted their bikes. Several other members loaded a white paneled van nearly hidden at clubhouse’s edge.
King and Corman walked to their bikes, positioned closest to the mouth of the concrete parking lot. King tied a bandana around his head, and Corman put on silver goggles. The movements around us grew frenzied as the other men finished their preparations. The air stilled in anticipation.
King mounted his bike first and hit the starter. The engine turned over on the first try and killed the silence. Maybe one second passed before the air boomed with deafening mechanical thunder.
Wade turned to me, his face split by the widest of grins. He held out one hand. Cupped in his palm was a set of orange earplugs. I took them gratefully and shoved them in my ears. They blunted the noise but did not erase it.
The sound vibrated every inch of my body, all the way to root of every hair follicle. In perfectly timed intervals the Six Gun Revolutionaries took off in staggered pairs. By the time we got to the main highway, the noise and the utter intensity of it swallowed me. I was in the belly of the monster.
After three hours, my toes went numb. After five hours, my back ached, and I’d learned I could sleep with my forehead pressed between Wade's shoulders. His light pat on my knee woke me from a half doze in which I dreamed of a place that didn’t vibrate or smell like gasoline, or hot tire rubber. He pointed at the Bandera county limits sign as we passed it.
